Gay Harry Potter-06-9-Seamus At Home
by jerome1980
Summary: It's the summer holiday and Seamus is back home, working with the turf-cutters and looking forward to fun with the local girls. But a curse prevents access to girls so Seamus is stuck . . . until who should turn up but James Carter . . .


GAY HARRY POTTER-06-9-SEAMUS AT HOME

 **1**

Seamus Finnigan was unhappy.

Since that memorable night in December he'd been a reformed character—mild to friend and enemy alike; hard-working; loving to everybody. _Mens sana in corpore sano_ they called it—if one allowed masturbation as a central ingredient to mind and body.

And that was the root cause of his unhappiness: his whole sex-life comprised masturbation—lots of masturbation, but always solo, with neither boy nor girl for company and warmth.

Of course, at Hogwarts there could be only the most careful handling of girls, with anything approaching sex giving rise to the most deafening alarms from the PATME (Protection Against Too Much Enjoyment) charm.

But the boys, though . . . the boys.

Seamus had got himself into a ratch—only acknowledging male-to-male relationships in the coarsest physical sense. This was the basis on which Dean Thomas and Seamus had gone with Harry Potter during his long, pre-pubescent years. Seamus sometimes wondered if his best friend, Dean, was also in the same ratch, or whether Dean was a normal heterosexual boy, simply making the best of a bad job.

Of course, Seamus was a totally normal boy too. Neither the couple of hints he had let slip to Dean, nor the written applications to another couple of boys had produced any response. He had been a little more intimate with Danny and the Creeveys, but that was about it until that night in December when Harry Potter and Damian Fay had allowed him to enter their world of love.

Since then, nothing: Harry and Damian had kept their love secret, and the secret excluded Seamus.

Then wonderful little Stewart Ackerley had emerged. Stewart was shy and immensely clever, but he had one weakness: Muggle football. It was probably Dean who had introduced the game to Hogwarts, but the natural response of about two dozen boys had been immediate addiction.

At the start of his third year, Stewart had emerged as one of the keenest of players. He was no longer _little Stewart Ackerley_ either, growing up tall and willowy. Now he was fourteen years of poetry in motion on the football field, and amazingly he worshipped Seamus.

At first Seamus hadn't believed it, but there could be no doubt: before and after games, the boy haunted him—specifically hero-worshipping him and not Dean—so that soon it became quite natural that he and Seamus and Dean spent a lot of their time together.

The new, reformed Seamus treated Ack, as they called him, with as much respect as a mediaeval troubadour might treat his mistress. He never swore or talked dirty in his presence. He asked, in a kindly way, about his work and home-life. Sometimes, he got a bit tongue-tied and the boy came to his rescue. He blushed occasionally, and this was fitting because it seemed as if the world had suddenly become suffused in a roseate colour.

In the course of this, Dean had become painfully unmatched with Ginny Weasley. How much he suspected that Seamus and Stewart were something special while in the middle of his own teenage agonies, Seamus couldn't tell. Sometimes he thought it _must_ be obvious, but Dean never let out any hint.

It crept up on Seamus that, for the first time in his seventeen years, he had fallen in love. This realisation, and the tenderness he felt for Ack, caused the purity and general niceness to intensify—a position that lasted until one wet Saturday afternoon when the footballers left the football field so soaked and muddied that immediate showers were called for.

In the hopelessly crowded showers, Seamus saw that Stewart was openly admiring his body—not just the naughty bits, but every part of him from hair to toes. Stewart saw that Seamus had noticed and smiled. _No-one should be smiled at like that_ thought Seamus, and then looked anew at Stewart's body.

At that moment all thoughts of wholesomeness and purity left Seamus's mind. He was dizzied with a tidal wave of lust. It wasn't simply the waving, limp male appendage, with its astonishing bonus of foreskin; the whole area of loin seemed devastatingly attractive: beneath the compact stomach, two lines headed downwards, drawing the eye to the top of the luscious thighs, the neat little bush, the low-slung ballsack and inexorably to the star of the show. All this was laid out on a tiny scale.

Seamus felt a twitching in his member and turned to leave the showers. At the same time four or five more boys bundled into the showers.

"Alright Seamus!" said James Carter, giving Seamus's willy a little tweak as he passed.

"Alright James!" said Seamus automatically, hoping that James would keep his mouth shut: it was not quite the done thing to get an erection in public showers; the people who went stiff there tended to be publicly gay.

Seamus left hurriedly to reach the security of his towel. But he was still in the showers when James squeezed Stewart's bottom, and told him: "Come on, Acky! You've had plenty of time for a wank!"

That finished Seamus! James Carter was a thirteen-year-old, but he was a big thirteen-year-old: taller than Seamus and Stewart—in fact taller than any of his second-year comrades—he had been fully developed for nearly a year and was a magnet for the girls. There was some suspicion that he had got _up to things_ with the other boys in his dormitory, but that didn't really mean anything—especially given the fact that he spent virtually every minute of his free time accompanied by girls.

Seamus, already sexually inflamed by the vision of Stewart, was knocked for six by James and his physicality. He reached the security of his towel and sat down just in time.

In his mind he reconstructed James's actions. Had there been a special intimacy in his playful tug of Seamus's penis? Surely there had been. What about his squeezing of Stewart's bum? The hand had gone a long way into the crack. Had it actually _penetrated_ James's holy of holies?

Apart from his sexy body, James had an unusual attribute: he was _pretty_ : since Colin Creevey and Adam Watts-Poxon had grown up (well, reached sixteen) there had been very few Hogwarts boys that you could call pretty—handsome, yes; good-looking; even beautiful; but not pretty. It was this prettiness that had stopped Seamus from making a pass at James in his first year. _Out of my class_ he had vaguely thought.

But now, class didn't come into it. Seamus was full of hormones that demanded James's body.

Stewart came out of the showers.

"Could have done with another five minutes," he said, "I'll be stiff as anything tomorrow morning."

"Yeah," said Seamus. He wished Stewart hadn't used the word _stiff_.

"I'm starving," came a voice.

"Alright Dean," said Seamus, "Sure you can't be. You stuffed yourself to the gills at dinner."

"I'm a growing boy," said Dean, "I need my nourishment."

"I'll give you a bag of Dragon-flavour Shapes if you want."

"You're spoiling me. I'll pay you back, mate."

"You don't need to, Dean," he said.

"You're a generous soul, aren't you?" said Stewart, touching Seamus on the shoulder and sending fresh shivers of yearning through his body.

It was nearly bedtime and Seamus resolved that the next day he would make an approach to Stewart . . . or should it be James?

He went to bed in a tizz, and must have wanked seven or eight times through the night, fantasising about the two boys.

Then Dumbledore got himself killed.

 **2**

Seamus was with his mother on the Hogwarts Express.

The school had been closed and all exams had been postponed. Ma had come over from Ireland to collect Seamus, but had been told, in no uncertain terms, that Seamus would be staying at Hogwarts for another day to attend Dumbledore's funeral.

Now, Seamus was knee-to-knee with Ma on a packed train.

Parents were not encouraged to take the Hogwarts Express, and mostly it was just the occasional mother (usually) who couldn't bear to be without her little one for one minute more than necessary, who insisted on counterattacking officialdom and making the long journey twice.

But the high-profile murder of the Hogwarts headmaster by one of his senior under-masters had shaken the wizarding world up. The train was crowded with mothers (lots), husbands (some) and grandparents (a few). So Seamus and his mother were currently stuck in a crowded compartment with Mrs Summerby and her Hufflepuff seventh-year son, Mike; Mr and Mrs Murch and their fourth-year Ravenclaw, Martin; Mr and Mrs Fulton and their second-year Ravenclaw, Gene—who Seamus hadn't noticed before, but rather fancied now that he had seen him close-to.

Had Conversation featured in the Wizard Olympic Games, Mrs Finnigan would have been an automatic selection for Ireland. She could talk at any length about anything, at any time or place.

But Mrs Summerby never gave her a chance. "It's just not fair," she said, "Our Michael's worked seven years to give himself a good start in life."

"What about Seamus," said Mrs Finnigan, "He's—"

"I mean,"—Mrs Summerby continued, as if Mrs Finnigan had not spoken—"We're only ordinary people, and Michael's not the most gifted of students, but he's made the most of his talents and what we've been able to give him, and now he's got applications in for the Ministry and for Jorrocks and Company, and all he has to do is get reasonable N.E.W.T.'s. And I can't see when he's going to take the rest of the exams."

"Perhaps—"

"What's going to happen to the papers he _did_ take? N.E.W.T.'s are meant to take place in one go—they don't allow resits of single papers, so we're talking about a two-week period and how are they going to slot _that_ in?"

"What about Seamus, next year? He's—"

"They're not going to do that over summer, are they. I mean there's holidays, aren't there?"

Seamus focused his mind out. How stupid he'd been to think about Gene Fulton—or any other boy for that matter—when school was out and he was going home; and that meant girls.

He let his mind drift lazily over the girls within range of his home in County Offaly. He thought of the girls he'd already had. Most of them were older, and would be willing and eager—even the ones who had got married. Then there were the ones who had refused him, but looked as though they might.

But he'd saved the best fantasies till last: the little girls just past puberty, with their small bud-like _brollaig_ , and beneath that wispy _gruaige_ , the tight little _scoilt_. How he'd enjoy sticking his willy—.

He realised that he'd given himself an extreme erection.

"And suppose—just suppose—that they decide to bring all of them back in September," Mrs Summerby was saying, "They'll all have forgotten everything they ever knew, so they'll have to have a revision period. Where are the teachers going to find the time? Where will they sleep?"

Seamus had had enough: he had to go to the loo for a wank. And bugger girls: he was going to have a bit of male flesh for company if he possibly could.

He looked at Gene. Why had he not noticed him before? He was a dark, mysterious-looking boy. Second-year, so would be thirteen—maybe near to fourteen. Looked as though he knew one end of a poker from the other. Just right, thought Seamus.

He continued to look at Gene while murmuring: "Excuse me. Just going to the loo."

He went out into the corridor, which was full of students dashing from one compartment to another, or hanging around in groups. The overwhelming presence of so many parents was clearly inhibiting.

He hung about for a little talking to a group of girls, and hoping that Gene would emerge. He didn't, but Martin Murch did.

Martin came up to him. "Alright Seamus?" he said, "Bloody hell! Mike's mum can't half rabbit on, can't she?"

"If she wasn't doing it, Ma would," laughed Seamus, "I think Ma's met her match at last."

"You've got to see her point, haven't you though? It's not fair on the seventh-years is it?"

"No, but there's not much anyone can do about it."

"No. Come on, let's find a loo."

They went to the back of the train, and every loo had an _engaged_ sign up. They went all the way to the front, with the same result. Seamus saw that Ack was sharing a compartment with some of his classmates and their parents. Seamus's erection was beginning to hurt by now. A little further on, James Carter was on his best behaviour, politely chatting up some girls while their parents looked on benevolently. He caught James's eye, and received a wink.

They walked on.

"Bloody hell, Murchy," said Seamus, "Some of the kids must be in there for the duration."

"Can't say I blame them," said Martin, "What with all these parents around."

They wandered back towards the centre of the train, and were lucky enough to catch Harold Holmes and his boyfriend James Gloyne emerging from one of the bogs.

"There's a bed for that sort of thing, Holmesy," said Martin.

"I know," said Harold, "But we decided to cheer each other up after the funeral. Besides, James is off on holiday to Mauritius, so we won't see each other for ages."

"No you don't!" said Martin, blocking off an enterprising first year who had wriggled past the four big boys and was proposing to enter the lavatory, "Come on Seamus, while we've got the chance."

They went inside together and locked the door. Martin immediately pulled out his plonker and started an enormous piss. The place smelled of semen. Seamus saw a lot of sticky stains on the floor. It looked as though quite a few boys had availed themselves in the couple of hours so far.

"Come on shitface," said Martin, "I've just had an idea for Corridor Rugby."

"Er . . ." said Seamus.

"What's up? Don't tell me you're shy!"

"Er . . . no. It's just that . . . it must be the motion of the train."

"Oh you've got a stiffie! Get it out, wank it off, have your piss and let's hit the corridor!"

Seamus pulled out his stiffie. Immediately, he saw Martin's penis twitch and start to fatten even before he'd finished his pee.

"You've got me started now!" said Martin, "Get your knickers down and give us a proper look."

He gave Seamus no chance of obeying, but lifted Seamus's cloak and yanked down his tracksuit bottoms and underpants in one movement.

"You _are_ excited," he said, undoing his robe and dropping his own lower garments. His willy twitched to a full erection. Seamus saw that he had the standard British six inches—slightly more than his own—but fatter—much, much fatter. His willy was bent upwards, giving Seamus a view of a beefy frenulum. A thread of sticky clear fluid leaked from Seamus's penis.

"I'm not gay," said Seamus.

"Neither am I," said Martin, pulling Seamus towards him so that their willies touched.

"No, seriously, I'm not gay."

Martin compressed his lips on Seamus's— _He's shutting me up_ Seamus thought—and placed his hands on Seamus's bottom, squeezing hard.

Seamus felt the welcome surge of lust. He was coming; it didn't matter what Martin was doing, he was coming. It didn't matter that his arsehole was hurting. Good God, had he got two or three fingers up? He was coming.

His middle bits jerked uncontrollably. He spurted repeatedly over Martin's genitalia, screaming while he did so. It wasn't just his genitals and rectum: lust was all over his body like Spattergroit Eczema.

He gave one final twitch, and stood hanging breathlessly off Martin. He just wanted to savour the moment, while getting his breath back.

But Martin had other ideas: he turned Seamus round and pushed him against the wash-basin. Seamus could feel something very hard indeed butting up against his hole. Then it pressed forward. Martin's intentions were evident.

"No, don't," he said, "It's too big!"

"Bollocks!" said Martin, pressing a little bit more.

Seamus settled down to endure it. There wasn't much he could do: Martin was bigger and stronger than him anyway.

As it turned out, Martin was very gentle with him, freezing when Seamus squeaked before resuming his relentless progress. Once the big corona of the glans had passed Seamus's sphincter, the rest went in easily.

The rest of the copulation was smooth: Martin's strokes were surprisingly placid, considering the physical and mental passions that he must be feeling. Only for the last three or four strokes, did he give way and bang his body hard into Seamus, squealing like a banshee, before, like Seamus, standing still, gasping for air. There was a strong smell of sweat. Come to think of it, Seamus had got quite a whiff from himself earlier.

Seamus thought about Martin. He had come to Hogwarts as an incredibly cute eleven-year-old; then, overnight it seemed, adolescence had changed him into an ugly, hulking lump. Like Ron Weasley, the gods of puberty had treated him unkindly. Until now, Seamus would no more have imagined Martin as a sexual partner than he would have considered any of the teachers—Yuch! Imagine screwing Professor McGonagall!

Yet there was no doubt that Seamus felt fulfilled and happy that he'd helped Martin get his rocks off. More than that, he'd actually enjoyed it. His willy was asking for more. It was stiff again. He hadn't looked at Martin's, no doubt, spotty and ugly bottom; he hadn't felt it; he hadn't introduced his finger; he hadn't—

He jerked backwards, signalling to Martin that he wanted him to clear out. Martin pulled gently backwards, causing a sharp twinge as the glans cleared Seamus's bumhole.

He manipulated Martin so he was up against the basin, and looked at his bottom. Then he ran his hands over it. It was an athlete's bottom: big, muscled and firm, so unlike Ack's or James Carter's. It was a bit like Dean's—no, he didn't want to think about Dean. Alright, it was indeed spotty and ugly, but it was enormously attractive too.

He squeezed both cheeks. Then he squeezed one cheek and moved it to one side so that he could see the bumhole. There was a little slit, something that reminded him of a girl's slit. Outside there was a ring of brown, with a some sparse hairs and a few smears where Martin hadn't bothered to wipe himself properly. He hadn't showered for a couple of days. That didn't bother Seamus, who hadn't showered himself for a fortnight or so.

He pushed a finger slowly against the bumhole. It yielded quite easily. He felt the ring twitching around his finger. He slowly moved his finger about for a few seconds before the intense urge to bugger took over.

He pulled his finger out, and immediately rammed himself into Martin's hole. His bumming technique was completely different from Martin's: a twice-a-second rampage that made use of the full length of his willy. He was drawing Martin to him with one hand over one of the boy's large nipples, and the other pressing his willy—which Seamus was impressed to feel was fully erect again.

It was over quite quickly: he nuzzled Martin's neck to stop himself screaming as his load vanished inside Martin's murky bumhole.

He had scarcely stopped before Martin pushed him out, rammed him up against the wash-basin and entered him. It was the same as before, but longer. Seamus's bum was sore, but it was a pleasant pain.

"Got a ciggy?" asked Martin.

"Yeah, in my cloak," said Seamus.

Martin found the packet and lit up a couple.

"That was good," he said.

"Yeah," said Seamus, but they didn't really need to speak: both boys understood exactly what the other had felt and was feeling now—which was mainly a sense of satisfaction and a need to recuperate.

They tossed the butt-ends down the pan, before Martin, making use of the convenience of his penis being already inside Seamus, gave Seamus another one, this time masturbating Seamus in the process.

"Onan!" laughed Martin.

"Eh?"

"You've spilled your seed on the ground."

"Eh?"

Martin explained matters.

"So that's why my Gran always calls her birds Onan," said Seamus.

When Martin withdrew, Seamus had the customary full feeling, which this time wasn't a bluff. He sat down for a poo and took the opportunity for a close inspection of Martin's bottom. He finished his poo and immediately backed Martin against the basin again.

He was as randy as ever, and gave Martin a good minutes-worth of seeing-to before, once again Martin reversed roles.

This time Martin was flagging. He was as willing as ever, but had to grind away for five minutes before squirting into Seamus with an exuberant shout.

Martin needed a poo, which proved to be so offensive that the lads agreed to call it a day.

"Sure you could carve the air and use it as fertiliser," said Seamus.

"It'll mask the pong of semen and armpits," laughed Martin.

They adjusted their clothing and unlocked the door. A young female made to go in, but Seamus told her: "I should give it a few minutes, love!"

They made their way back to their compartment.

"They could simply give everyone top marks for everything," Mrs Summerby was saying.

"But, surely, the Ministry—" said Mrs Finnigan.

"Or perhaps an Exceeds Expectations," continued Mrs Summerby, indefatigably, "Then those who really want Outstandings could be made to wait . . ."

Seamus saw that Martin had decided to forego Corridor Rugby. His head was drooping. Thirty seconds later, Seamus had joined him in sweet dreams. The next thing that he knew was the noisy kerfuffle as the train steamed into King's Cross Station.

 **3**

"We're home, Turlough!" shouted Mrs Finnigan, as she entered the kitchen.

"Is it yourself, and the boy, Roisin," came a cry from the next room.

Mrs Finnigan went to see about supper, while Seamus went into the living-room.

"Hello, Da," he said, running to hug his father.

" _Dia_ _duit_ to you, my boy," said Mr Finnigan, "Sure, isn't it a terrible thing your headmaster being killed like that?"

"Yes, Da. They still haven't caught Snape."

"Be thankful you always worked hard at your Potions. It might have been you."

"Sure, Da, Dumbledore wasn't killed for being bad at Potions; he was killed because he was fighting against Voldemort."

"Ah well, you never know. We were worried and it's fine to have you back in one piece."

"Come and get your tea," came from the next room.

The Finnigans lived in a single story cottage which was located within a bog, more-or-less at the centre of Ireland. It was solidly-built of whitewashed stone with a slate roof. Its five rooms were, in order: Mr and Mrs Finnigan's bedroom; the bathroom; the kitchen; the living-room; Seamus's bedroom.

Seamus had often used the physical distance between his own and his parents' bedrooms as cover for night-time prowlings. He intended to continue this practice, perhaps starting with a tryst with Maura Murphy, a lively eighteen-year-old girl who had proved obliging at Christmas, opening her legs at the drop of a hat—or, rather, at the touch of a breast.

On one side of the cottage were green fields leading to the Grand Canal, which ran all the way from Dublin to Shannon Harbour. On the other side was the bog, which belonged to the Finnigans. It had formed part of Mrs Finnigan's dowry, none of the witches and wizards in her family seeing much value in it. They were slightly annoyed when Mr Finnigan discovered that there was a huge demand for peat, and once the surface vetches and sedges had been discounted, he was sitting on five square miles of a peat layer averaging two yards thick. Currently, Finnigans employed five men and three boys to extract the peat using the latest mechanical equipment.

Mrs Finnigan, apart from keeping a spotless house, spent her time looking after her herd of cows and flock of chickens, and worrying about her only son Seamus. Still, he was back now, she thought as she washed the dishes; in one piece as Turlough had said.

And he was staying: the board by the canal read:

FINNIGAN

TURVES

There was room for a SON, and that would be added immediately.

The other thing was marriage: she knew from the state of Seamus's clothes and the local girls that her son was a randy little sod. A shame that he wasn't well-endowed, like Turlough . . . those pixie fingers teasing her bits . . . all the more astonishing when that monstrous organ . . .

She shuddered. What had she been thinking about? Oh yes: Seamus was seventeen and it was time to find him a good girl; preferably a witch. That would mean Dublin. Mrs Finnigan didn't think much of the rural witches. They were all primitive, uneducated girls and hags in the making.

No, Dublin it had to be. She regretted belatedly not making use of the presence of so many girls and parents on the Hogwarts Express. She might have found a good, wealthy witch for Seamus instead of trying to get a word in edgeways with that Mrs Summerby.

Still, it was no use crying over a spilt potion. The immediate aim was to set Seamus to work with his father; and ensuring that he didn't get any more girls into trouble.

She dried the dishes with a magically-induced blast of hot air, and stored them in the correct places. Then she went into the sitting room where, on this first night at least, Seamus was making himself at home.

"We were just talking about where we were going on holiday this year," said Mr Finnigan.

"Let's have a week in Dublin," said Mrs Finnigan, "We should get to know our capital city."

Mr Finnigan, who had been steering the conversation towards the warm Spanish sun, knew better than to directly contradict his wife. "Sure, that's one idea," he diplomatically said, "We'll talk about it over the next few days. In the meantime, how about getting to know the business, Seamus?"

"Can't wait, Da," said Seamus.

"Tomorrow, we'll be out the door at half past seven."

Seamus wanted to tell his parents that he would only work until August the thirty-first as he intended to go to back to Hogwarts and complete his last year; and after that, a career in horse-training.

Now was definitely not the time: his mother, having pulled her boy out of Hogwarts in blind panic, would take a bit of effort; and Seamus _would_ put the effort in: drip, drip, drip throughout the holiday.

But wheedling his mother would only take up part of the time: the remainder of the summer would be spent working through the day and _courting_ —what a lovely euphemism—through the night.

"Okay, Da," he said.

For this first night, Seamus stayed in. They talked until ten o'clock, at which time Seamus yawned and told his parents: "I'm away to my bed."

"You'll have a bath first," said his mother, "There's plenty of hot water. And clean off the ring of dirt on the bath when you leave."

"Okay, Ma" he said. He had forgotten the downside of living at home.

In the bath, he thought about his plan of campaign. He would start with Mary O'Connell, a no-nonsense nineteen-year-old who had proved willing to do anything with Seamus—anything consisting of normal sexual intercourse, or a top-class blow-job if she had the painters in.

His hand reached for his very stiff penis—but no: he would give it a rest tonight so that he had a good head of steam for Mary.

He said good night to his parents and went into his bedroom. It was wonderful to know that his warm little bed was always waiting for him.

As usual, he had a little read before going to sleep. Tonight it was one of his second-year textbooks— _Holidays with Hags_ , by Gilderoy Lockhart, a work of fiction which he had recognised as such at the time. But nobody could tell a ripping yarn like Gilderoy Lockhart.

It had been a long day and Seamus was soon sleepy. He put out the light and immediately started thinking about Mary—her curvey body, her smooth shoulders, her . . .

His penis was stiff again and his hand was on it.

Bugger it! One wank wouldn't make much difference. He could smell Martin Murch on his body despite the bath. He brought himself to climax thinking of a hybrid Mary/Martin. When he shot, he was also thinking of little Stewart Ackerley.

 **4**

Next morning, Seamus was a little bit late in getting up. He woke up thinking of Mary, and fortunately had to forego a wank as his mother's screams were too demanding. He put on fresh socks and underpants, tucking his erection away, then put on his oldest jeans and tee-shirt.

He rushed through the kitchen, where Da commented: "That's a fine start on your first day. You'll have to pull your socks up from now on, Seamus."

"Ah well, It was a long day yesterday," said Ma, "Sure and isn't the boy allowed a bit of a lie-in just for once, Turlough?"

He had a simultaneous pee and toothbrush in the bathroom and returned to the kitchen, where Ma had his breakfast ready.

He started bolting his food, but Ma told him: "Give yourself time to taste it, Seamus." So he ate at his usual pace and, after five minutes, his Ma gave him and Da their packets of sandwiches bottles of cold tea, and sent them on their way.

Da drove him in the pick-up truck to the depot. On the way they saw little Delia Press waiting at a bus stop.

Da stopped the truck.

"Are you wanting a lift, Delia?" asked Da.

"That's very kind of you Mr Finnigan," she said, and got into the seat, pressing herself closely to Seamus.

"Are you alright, Seamus?" she said.

"Yeah, and how's yourself, Delia?" She was not so little, now. A good, healthy girl of fourteen or fifteen.

"I'm fine," she said, "Are you back from your special school then?"

"Yeah."

"We've got three weeks to go. I'm right in the middle of exams."

She was rubbing up against Seamus. Either she had fleas or she had the hots for him.

"Oh yeah," he said. He pushed his rump back to lessen the obviousness of what was quickly becoming a stiffie.

"They're not too bad," she said, "But English next week is a mare. Conrad's _Heart of Darkness_ and I can't make head or tail of it."

"Maybe I could help you?"

Her hand was casually laying against his thigh.

"Would you? That would be so kind."

They arranged to meet that night and dropped her off at her school, rather earlier than usual.

At the depot, the entire workforce was present. They were all, like Mr Finnigan, Muggles.

"Sorry I'm late lads; a bit of trouble starting the pick-up," said Mr Finnigan.

Good old Da! He wouldn't say anything against his family.

"This is my son Seamus, for those who don't know. I think we'll start you off today with Michael and Patrick. You remember the O'Neills don't you Seamus?"

"Sure I remember them," grinned Seamus.

The answering grins from Michael and Patrick were a little forced, he thought. Michael O'Neill was a short, dark man; his son, Patrick—one of many, Seamus remembered—was a bit taller, but just as dark. He must be about twenty now; courting or, more probably, married.

Mr Finnigan unlocked the shed and the men all made for their pre-assigned machines, except Mr Bloom, who handled all the office paperwork, and Mr Boylan, who would drive the lorry around collecting the cut turves.

Seamus noted a newcomer: a ginger-haired youth of about sixteen. He was a real looker, thought Seamus. It would be nice to be sent out to the bog with him. He saw that the youth was smiling at him and blushed a little.

Yes it _would_ be nice to find himself with a spare half-hour while he and the youth were on work assignment. Maybe he could fix it up with the Da.

He got into the back of the Land Rover after Michael O'Neill had backed out the huge turf-cutting machine. Then they set off, ending up in the middle of nowhere.

The work was easy. Michael used the machine to cut the turf horizontally into eight-inch layers. It was then used to slice the cut layer into slices of two feet by one. The last stage was manual: Patrick and Seamus had to use two wheelbarrows to move the turves to the road and stack them ready for Mr Boylan to collect in the lorry.

They took things easily: several smoke-breaks and a very long lunch-hour, during which Patrick spoke about his wife in a filthy way, going so far as to hint that Seamus might, for a small fee, enjoy her body. Seamus politely declined.

This latter conversation, it should be said, took place while Michael was absent—he had taken the Land Rover to the local bookmaker to lay on some lines for him and his son.

"Are you not having a bet, Seamus?" asked Michael, but Seamus knew enough about horses—especially Muggle-trained horses—not to risk his money.

After lunch the work was, if anything, even more leisurely than in the morning. Seamus wondered if Michael had had a quick sniff of the _craythur_ , the pub being next door to the bookies.

At four o'clock, a battered trannie pulled up and Patrick went over to talk to the driver. The discussion went on for quite a time, with the driver periodically looking at Seamus. Eventually the van drove back in the direction it had come from.

"Who was that?" asked Seamus.

"Only some poor old culchie who's lost his way," said Patrick.

At five o'clock, Mr Boylan came round in his lorry and all three loaded up the turves. This was the signal for the end of the working day—though _work_ seemed a bit of an exaggeration—and they hitched up the cutting machine and drove back to the depot.

Seamus didn't get to see the good-looking ginger youth. Never mind, he had the whole summer to get to know him.

"Did you like your first day, Seamus?" asked his Da, on the drive home.

"It was pretty easy, Da."

"Sure and don't the Boylans have to do it five days a week? You can forgive them for taking things a little easy."

"Bone-idle is my phrase."

But when Seamus rose after tea, there was a stiffness in his muscles that seemed to support his father's view.

It was a different sort of stiffness that took hold of him as he changed.

"So you're going to see Delia?" said his mother.

"Yes Ma," he said.

"And you'll be careful not to get too close to her, won't you? She's only a _sican beag_."

"She's not a little girl, Ma; she's fourteen or fifteen."

"She's fourteen and remember: you can look but you can't touch."

"Okay, Ma."

"Listen to your mother, son," said Mr Finnigan unexpectedly, "She knows what she's talking about."

"Okay, Da."

Seamus laughed inwardly: what planet were they living on? Delia Press was a sexy little girl who had got very hot pants for Seamus; and the feeling was mutual. He might not go all the way on the first date, but he expected to get very close.

"See you later," he said, as he set off to walk the half-mile to the Press's house by the canal.

The door was answered by Delia herself, while an assortment of siblings of mixed age and gender came to have a look.

"Hi, Seamus," she said, "Come on; let's get away from this lot."

They walked along the canal telling each other about their lives.

"Do you fancy going to the Burlagarron wood?" he asked.

"That's where we went for a school picnic a couple of years ago," laughed Delia.

"I don't think there'll be many picnicking today."

"Go on, _buachaill brea_ ," she said, and Seamus took Delia's hand and quickened their pace.

As soon as they were under cover of the trees, Seamus pulled her to him and kissed her. She made no pretence of resistance, but opened her mouth slightly and placed one hand on his head and one hand on his back.

Seamus found her tongue with his and held her close while he wiggled it about. She responded enthusiastically, if inexpertly.

They carried on kissing and cuddling for some time before Seamus broke off and said: "Let's find somewhere more private."

Seamus had an erection.

Holding hands they went deeper into the wood. Then, when they reached a very remote part of the wood, but from where they could still catch glimpses of the canal, Delia removed the light jacket she was wearing, threw that also upon the ground, then quickly stretched herself out upon it with her hands clasped beneath her neck.

Seamus could see her small, firm breasts underneath her Tee-shirt. He reached down and squeezed them, one at a time. She quivered and pulled his free arm towards her.

Seamus laid his own jacket on the mossy ground and stretched out. They resumed the kissing, with Seamus's hand stroking the girl's breasts.

"Do you want to take your top off?" he asked, and she obeyed with alacrity.

Then they were kissing again. Seamus was stroking the girl's breasts, arms and neck. His hand found its way to her bra-strap and undid it.

His eyes feasted on the glory of her naked breasts. Before too long his mouth was feasting too as, like a car windscreen-wiper, his lips found first one nipple and then the other.

Delia was wriggling and groaning.

Seamus put his hand on her knee; then her silky-smooth thighs; then—

DANGER! DANGER! GO AWAY! DANGER! DANGER! GO AWAY!

What the bejasus?

They both sprang to their feet, adjusting their clothing and looking fearfully round for the source of the deafening voice.

Delia was screaming; someone else was screaming too: Seamus didn't recognise the strange screech as his own voice.

Still screaming, Delia ran back through the wood. Seamus started to run after her, then stopped. The awful voice had ceased, thank goodness. He realised that it had belonged to his mother.

Damn! Damn! Damn! The old cow had cursed him; cursed her own son.

His underpants were soaking. He realised that he had come simultaneously with the advent of the voice.

He made his miserable way home, going roundabout as he did not want to risk the wrath of Mr and Mrs Press.

"You're back early, son," said his da.

"Ma knows why," he said bitterly.

To be fair to Mrs Finnigan, she had the grace to appear embarrassed. " 'Tis for your own good, Seamus," she said, "You'll have to wait until you're married and then you can hanky-pank all night."

"Ma, it's so . . . well, intrusive."

"Better intrusive than invasive. You know, Sinead Noonan had an abortion?"

Seamus looked a little hangdog. "I didn't know," he said.

"And Bridget Geraghty? And Sarah Linehan?"

"Er . . ."

"Abortion is a terrible stern way of doing birth control Seamus."

"I suppose I could wear one of these Muggle rubber things."

"You'd forget it in the heat of the moment."

Mr Finnigan joined the debate: "You'd have the priests after you, Seamus; and you don't want that."

"Don't bring your blooming priests into it, Turlough," snapped Mrs Finnigan, "At least not until we get Seamus safely off."

"I'm going to bed," said Seamus, "Goodnight, Ma. Goodnight, Da."

He went to his bedroom and thought things over. It was no good trying to get his ma to lift the curse. Perhaps it was linked to geography: perhaps it only happened with girls within a twenty-mile or so radius.

He thought of having a day-trip to Dublin, but that would only be a one-off—or once a week, say. What about the rest of the time?

It was a much disgruntled Seamus who fell asleep that night, after a consolatory wank.

 **5**

He woke up the next morning in a brighter mood: presumably the curse wouldn't come into effect if a girl touched _his_ bits. He would try it out that evening. He celebrated with a wank, thinking of Mary O'Connell.

At work things were just as slow as ever. Michael and Patrick were the two laziest people he'd ever met. Fortunately, he'd brought a book—it was called _Dubliners_ —to while away the long smoke-breaks that his workmates insisted on.

He decided to give it a week before asking his da to move him to another team—perhaps the team with the ginger boy, who had smiled at him again that morning.

After tea that evening, he went around to Mary's house and asked her mother if Mary was coming out. Mary came to the door and told him no, she wasn't coming out, and if he thought it was funny playing tricks like that on Delia, he would have to think again.

Shit! News got around fast. Seamus knew that none of the local girls would touch him now.

He went back home and played Pick-up Sticks with his parents. It was good fun trying to detect his mother cheating by using magic—and vice versa of course.

The rest of the week was much as expected, the only unusual event being the passage of Monday's transit van at four o'clock every day. The driver seemed to know where he was going this time. Seamus wondered where he was going and where he had come from, but he didn't think too long about that question because, when they got back to the depot, someone from the ginger boy's team was deep in discussion with Mr Finnigan.

Seamus wandered over to the boy. "Hello," he said.

"Hello, Seamus," said the boy.

"I don't know your name."

"It's Will—William Finnigan in full."

"Are we related?"

"Not closer than third cousins. That makes us seven or eight degrees of consanguinity apart. The church says four so we've got plenty to spare."

"What's consanguinity?"

"I'll tell you in private."

So the boy assumed that they'd be seeing each other in private. Seamus's penis gave a little preparatory tremor.

"Where?"

"What you doing on Friday night?"

"Going somewhere nice with you, I hope."

Will was pleased, and smiled. Seamus smiled back. This little kitten was an out-and-out sexpot. His green eyes and high-cheekboned freckled face went beautifully with the bright ginger hair. And his body looked ace, despite the dirty old clothes. And . . . bloody hell! . . . he had a king-size erection.

"How about Cosgroves?" said Will.

"What? Oh yeah. Cosgroves would be fine," said Seamus.

"We'll have a couple of pints before moving on."

"Yeah, that'll be great."

"Unless you want to pick up a couple of _caillini_?"

"No thanks."

Will's smile became broader.

"Just us two then," he said.

"Yeah, just us two."

"Break it up, lovebirds," shouted Will's workmate.

"Coming, Da! See yer, Seamus," said the boy.

He ran off and got in an old banger with his father.

On the way home, Seamus's penis was erect and bobbed slowly to the rhythm of his heart.

He was walking on air as he followed his father into the house. He expected his mother to be in the kitchen but it was empty. Mr Finnigan called out: "We're home Roisin!"

"We're in here," came the reply from the living-room.

 _We_?

They went next door. Seamus had the impression that a Gaelic Football crowd had somehow found its way into their house.

Then things clarified themselves: the crowd resolved into a pleasant-looking couple, two little girls and . . . and James Carter!

There was a flurry of introductions and explanations. The Carters were on holiday in Dublin and, having heard such a lot about Seamus from James, had taken the liberty of popping in.

"Sure, that was nice of you," said Mr Finnigan, "Welcome to our modest home."

"It's a lovely house," said Mrs Carter.

"I'll go and get you some tea," said Mrs Finnigan, then, seeing that Mrs Carter was about to object: "It's no trouble."

"I'll come and give you a hand," said Mrs Carter, and followed Mrs Finnigan into the kitchen with her two little girls.

"How long are you in our beautiful country?" asked Mr Finnigan.

"Just for a week," said Mr Carter, "The missus wants to see Alice Kyteler World, and then there's the Guinness Storehouse and the World of Leprechauns—the kids are dying to see that one."

"No they're not," said James.

Mr Carter laughed: "Well, _most_ of the kids are dying to see it."

"Perhaps I could stay with Seamus."

"That'd be great," said Seamus.

"I don't see why not, if Mrs Carter says okay," said Mr Carter.

"You could skip work tomorrow if you want, Seamus," said Mr Finnigan.

"I'll go to work with you, Seamus," said James, "And stay with you through the weekend."

"Even better," said Seamus.

For the rest of the evening, Seamus wondered if James was up for anything. He was in such a state by the time that the Carters left that he scarcely noticed the delicious omelet and potato scones that his mother had provided.

He did, however, notice Mrs Finnigan's comment: "It's a big bed, Seamus. I'm sure you and James will have room enough. But I can make you up a shakedown if you'd prefer that, James."

"I'll be alright, Mrs Finnigan," said James.

Then it was the magic hour—nine o'clock to be precise. Bladders had been emptied and teeth brushed—using Seamus's toothbrush. The boys were alone in Seamus's bedroom. Seamus had locked the door.

"Well," said James.

"Well," said Seamus.

 **6**

Seamus had tried to block from his thoughts the likelihood of James doing anything naughty all through the evening. It was a sort of advance insurance against disappointment.

Now, face-to-face with the boy, his mind had to do a sudden _volte-face_.

James got his trainers and socks off; then his top and trousers.

He was standing in front of Seamus in his underpants, with a good-sized bulge in the front.

"Aren't you getting undressed?" he asked; then: "Sure the door is locked?"

"Yeah, yeah," said Seamus, and he started scrabbling out of his clothes.

He was debating observing proprieties by keeping his underpants on until they were decently underneath the bedclothes; but a totally naked James, displaying a fully grown stiffie yanked them down.

Then, without saying a word, he placed his hands on Seamus's buttocks and drew the boy to him.

They kissed and it was wonderful.

James had a spicy smell: a sort of weak cinnamon and ginger.

"Oh, God!" said Seamus, drawing away, "I never washed."

"Too late now," said James, pulling Seamus back to him and resuming the kiss. One hand caressed Seamus's back; the other explored his sweaty buttocks: stroking, squeezing and patting.

Seamus felt as though he was in a dream; as though any moment now, he would wake up alone.

He reached out his hands. One hand was laid on James's head. He allowed the long hair to feather through his fingers. With the other hand, he felt James's knobbly spine—pitifully frail; the spine of a thirteen-year-old.

And the smoothness of the skin was extraordinary. Although James was a year past puberty, his skin was completely unblemished. When Seamus was that age, he too was post-pubescent but his skin was a mess of acne, lumps and hair follicles.

They were of a height and Seamus could feel his hard willy pressing against James's. It didn't seem fair: there were four school years between them. How could this little boy have been blessed with beauty, height, skin and an inch longer willy? And to be so cool and self-possessed? So not giving a damn about Gay?

As if in ironic comment on Seamus's thought, James broke off the kiss and pushed Seamus back onto the bed. He straddled Seamus and stroked his hair.

God, he had wonderful nipples. Seamus reached out and tweaked them.

"Good idea!" murmured James, moving down and taking Seamus's left nipple into his mouth. After a few seconds, he moved to the other one. Seamus remembered that just a couple of days earlier he had been doing the same thing to Delia Press. Girls didn't matter any more.

James changed nipples again. God, it felt so wonderful. Seamus's middle jerked in lust. He could feel a squirt of pre-cum emerging. He stroked James's head and had to move his hands downwards to follow it.

James was licking Seamus's willy. Seamus looked down and saw the pink tongue probing the stickiness around the slit, then extending to the entire bell-end. James didn't seem to mind the awful cruddiness of the organ.

Then, with a swoop of his head, James enveloped the entire willy. He gave it a suck, resulting in a massive lurch of Seamus's loins. But immediately he was off again, and licking the ballsack.

After sucking the right ball, the left ball, then both balls together, James moved to darker regions: his lips and tongue found their way to Seamus's bumhole.

He pleasured Seamus in a skilled and experienced way. He had done this before, thought Seamus. Then he thought of his unwashed condition. It hadn't put James off, thank goodness.

James was stimulating Seamus's bumhole with his lips, while his tongue was exploring inside.

It felt so good that Seamus groaned with pleasure and lifted his bottom to allow James the fullest possible access.

James continued the good work for another minute or so before raising himself and smiling at Seamus.

Then he did something which totally surprised Seamus: he placed his penis against the bumhole and forced it inside, using his body weight—right up to the hilt.

"YOW!" shouted Seamus, as a wave of pain spread about his loins.

But James ignored him, moving in and out, hitting Seamus's prostate and making him come—it was Seamus's best orgasm ever. He could feel splash after splash on his chest. He screamed out something in his orgasm. Thank heavens for _Illaun!_ he thought.

James continued to move in and out, at a steady pace. He nibbled Seamus's ear. Seamus saw that he had given James a lovebite on his neck. Despite his post-orgasmic state, he noticed that each stroke from James caused a little additional peak of pleasure.

With a final jerky flurry, and a softly-voiced _Ugh! Ugh!_ James came and lay on Seamus, kissing his neck.

"Thank you, sexpot," panted James.

"No. Thank _you_ ," said Seamus.

They lay, post-coital and panting, each holding tightly to the other.

After a few minutes, Seamus started to feel the urge again. He pushed James out and stretched to kiss his nipples. It was his turn and he intended to give James one. He would ram into James and bang him like a hammer.

But puberty was running riot in James's veins like a disease. With a sudden, irresistible force, he had Seamus on his back and hoisted his legs up. Seamus could see the young stiff penis, with its tight ballsack and handsome triangle of hair bearing down on him.

Then he was in again, and jerkily coupling with Seamus. His bumhole hurt a little, but the pleasure far outweighed the pain. His body was telling him that James had found that spot again.

In a dizzy swirl, holding his swaying partner tightly, Seamus had another orgasm—as strong as the previous one.

James pounded away in his gentle, polite manner. Only at the last moment did he lose control, his movements becoming forceful and jerky, his eyes going dreamy, his mouth dribbling saliva onto Seamus's face, as deep inside him, he released his boyjuice.

As he kissed the boy and held him tightly, Seamus wondered how much he liked James. Did he love him?

Yes, he decided.

"I love you, James," he said.

There was no answer as James had fallen asleep on top of Seamus.

He eased the boy out and gently laid him on his side. He looked at the boy.

He was so beautiful. He was perfection. His toes, his shins, his thighs. Not to forget the cute little knees.

The boy's penis had softened. Its young velvety body lay skinny and red in its own puddle of ooze.

There was a reek of stale semen. And the coarse, rank scent of Seamus's own body. There was also the scent of James: spicy; funky; perhaps a touch of marine.

He pulled the bedclothes over them.

He insinuated a leg between James's, placed one hand on his bum and with the other held James's hand.

He fell into the first completely peaceful sleep that he had enjoyed for months.

 **7**

Next morning, Seamus woke up as usual at seven o'clock.

He lifted the bedclothes and looked at his bedmate. As beautiful as he remembered. He thought he might be in love.

His eyes were drawn to the penis and the little shadow of hair round its base. He laid his lips on the tip, which twitched. Then it started to fatten and lengthen. He opened his mouth, ready to take the whole thing into his mouth when—

"Seamus! It's ten past!"

It was his mother's voice. He knew from years of experience that you couldn't beg even a few minutes of extra sleep from her.

"Coming, Ma!" he called back, giving James a shake.

Nothing had prepared him for James's reaction on waking. He opened his eyes, saw Seamus and smiled at him. _No-one should be smiled at like that_ thought Seamus, his earlier passion for Ack totally forgotten.

Seamus was in love.

They got up.

" _Scourgio! Scourgio! Scourgio!_ " went Seamus.

"I bet that's the most often-used spell in County Offaly!" said James.

"I love you, James."

"I love you too, Seamus."

They had a brief kiss and cuddle before taking it in turns to go to the bathroom, wishing Mr and Mrs Finnigan good morning on the way.

They sat round the breakfast table. The radio news was playing.

"Did you sleep well, James?" asked Mrs Finnigan, pouring out his tea.

"Brilliantly, thanks, Mrs Finnigan."

They had their breakfast and Mr Finnigan drove the three of them to the depot.

"Michael and Patrick," he said, "This is James Carter who's going to be working with you and Seamus."

"Pleased to meet you, James," said Michael, shaking his hand.

"Hi, James," said Patrick.

The team of four squeezed into the pick-up truck and they set off for their work area.

When they arrived, they manoeuvred the turf-cutter into position and settled down for their breakfast break. This surprised James and rather annoyed him as he was eager to get to work.

"Do they do this every day?" he asked Seamus, quietly.

"Yes," said Seamus, "And just wait till you see the pace at which they work."

After more than twenty minutes, the work commenced. Michael took a horizontal cut into the turf-face and then brought the vertical cutters into play, creating sixteen separate turves.

Without looking at Seamus or James, Patrick loaded two of the turves onto a wheelbarrow and strolled towards the road in an unhurried manner.

"Crikey!" said James, "We're not going to get much done at this rate. Your dad should move these by magic."

"He won't allow any magic to be used in his business," said Seamus, "He wants to succeed on his own two feet, as he puts it."

"This isn't succeeding; it's ticking over. Come on!"

He loaded four turves on his wheelbarrow and set off at a rate sufficient to overtake Patrick when he was half way to the road.

That set the pattern for the morning. Seamus and James worked at a steady, but not exhausting, rate.

"You'd be better pacing yourself," said Patrick, who was still taking two turves on each load.

"We are!" laughed Seamus.

The pace quickened during the afternoon. James had demanded a lesson on the turf cutter from Michael, so eliminating the bottle-neck.

As they waited for another batch of turf, James murmured to Seamus: "You know, I'll never understand the Irish: if I worked at Michael and Patrick's pace, I'd get so bored I'd go bonkers."

"It's not Irish," said Seamus, "It's just them."

"It's just them when they've got company. Could it be that if we weren't here, they'd work at a normal rate?"

"Why would they do that?"

"Maybe as a dumb protest against you being foisted on them."

"Could be."

But later, Seamus said: "No, it's not that, James. Dad wasn't surprised, so they must always work at the same rate."

"Or sell the excess to a third party."

"That's more like it. But who? And how?"

Of course, the answer came to Seamus pretty soon: "The trannie!" he said and explained to James about the van's regular manifestation at four o'clock.

They made a plan.

It wasn't too difficult to persuade Michael and Patrick to extend one of their tea breaks so that, at four o'clock, they were still sitting by the huge stack of turves—three of them were anyway: Seamus was concealed with his wand out—he was over seventeen and could do magic without setting off alarms in the Ministry.

The sound of the van came.

"Go and flag it down, Patrick," said James, "We need some more fags."

Patrick unthinkingly obeyed. The van stopped and the driver got out.

"Back to normal, eh?" he said, as he swung open the rear doors.

Then: "Oh, Mother of God!" as Seamus appeared. He ran to the van, but it had conked out and it wouldn't start. Seamus was sorry that Michael and Patrick would never get to appreciate the skill with which he had Confunded the engine.

"Hello," said Seamus.

The driver was making frantic efforts to start the engine.

"You'll just flatten the battery," said Seamus, "If I were you, I'd leave it for now. Just wait until we've finished and come back with us. We can all have a nice cosy chat in the Da's office."

Something about the man's face was familiar: "Are you Michael's brother?" he asked.

"Yes Sir," said the man, "And I've got me parents and me wife and ten children and I don't know what'll happen to them if I go to prison, Sir."

"Shut up, Tommy," his brother shouted.

"Shut up yourself, Michael," said Seamus, "Who said anything about prison? We don't want the police involved."

This seemed to cheer everybody up and they carried on working until Mr Boylan arrived with the lorry.

"Goodness," he said, "You've had a busy day."

"And _every_ day's going to be a busy day from now on," said Seamus.

They loaded up the lorry, then packed up and drove to the depot, Tommy O'Neill and his dog sitting in the back of the pick-up.

Seamus explained matters to his father. All the O'Neills denied everything, but Mr Finnigan ignored them.

"You're not on a fixed rate any more," he told them, "You'll be doing piece-work—twelve pee per turf, out of which I shall fine you six pee until I think you have paid off your debt."

"But—" interposed Michael.

"Not a word, or I'll just put matters into the hands of the police," said Mr Finnigan, which shut Michael and Patrick up.

"And as for you, Tommy O'Neil," he concluded, "You can carry on fiddling the Council with your mowing, but if I catch you on my land again, I'll report you."

Poor Tommy had had no idea that Mr Finnigan knew about his creative accounting with respect to mowing the public playing fields. He was even more deflated than the other two.

"You did a good job, you two," said Mr Finnigan on the drive home.

 **8**

They had a wonderful family night that evening.

Mr Finnigan was triumphant.

"You boys have made up a two-hundred-a-week shortfall," he said, "Perhaps we can afford to go somewhere exotic this year. You must come with us James."

"That would be brilliant, Mr Finnigan," said James.

They had games. They listened to the wizard radio. They did singing and dancing. It was perfect, and it all ended at two o'clock in the morning.

Or rather it all _began_ : Seamus and James were as hot as the previous night.

"I _do_ love you James," said Seamus, between bouts, "But I'm sorry I'll never be faithful."

"Nor will I," said James, "I've got my eye on a couple of little hotties in our house."

"Let me guess: Gareth Treharne and Alan Campbell."

"Gareth's right, but the other one's Ruairidh McKay."

"I've never really fancied Ruairidh. Has he got form?"

"Tibby says he's got some really dirty habits—and Tibby should know, if anyone does."

"Interesting . . . In the meantime . . ."

They locked themselves into a sixty-nine and, in that position, went to sleep.

The next morning, it being Saturday, they spent in bed, getting up in time for a late breakfast or an early lunch.

They were relaxing with a cup of tea—Mr Finnigan was well laid-back, though probably not suffering from a sore penis, anus and mouth, to say nothing of love-bite stings all over his body.

There came a sharp crack: some-one had Apparated.

A knock came on the door.

Mrs Finnigan went to see who it was, and came back leading a distinguished-looking man followed by Stewart Ackerley!

"Hi, Stewart," said Seamus, his heart singing with love.

"Hi, Seamus . . . and James too," said Stewart.

Introductions were made; tea was poured; then Mr Ackerley explained the reason for the visit: he had to go to Prague on Ministry business and wanted to take Mrs Ackerley. Stewart had not been keen to join them and, on being asked was there a schoolmate with whom he could stay, had suggested Seamus as a possibility.

"Of course you can stay, Stewart!" said Mrs Finnigan.

"And more than welcome!" said Mr Finnigan.

Mr Ackerley departed and there was a cheerful babble as everyone grilled Stewart about his family. It turned out that his father had a new second wife and that Stewart's mother was currently in Tahiti.

Amid the chaos, most of them missed a second knock on the door. But Mr Finnigan heard and opened it to let in . . . Martin Murch.

"Murchy!" shouted Seamus.

"Hiya, Seamus," said Martin, "I was at a loose end and just called on the off-chance."

Seamus guessed that after a week of holidays, Martin had felt randy. He was delighted that Martin had turned up. A spunky, no-nonsense little—well, not so little—boy was just what was needed.

"You're very welcome," he said, "Come and join us!"

"I didn't realise it would be such a big party," said Martin.

"Would you like some tea, dear?" said Mrs Finnigan.

There came, yet again, a knock on the door.

"It's for you Seamus!" laughed Mr Finnigan.

Seamus opened the door and standing there was ginger Will Finnigan, looking as sexy as ever, complete with erection.

"I thought I'd better check that you were okay, as you didn't turn up at Cosgroves last night," he said.

"Sorry, Will, I was busy," said Seamus, "But come in and welcome. It's going to be a helluva night!"


End file.
